Vanishing Point
by endless-sonata
Summary: Edgeworth tries to find his way in a world irrevocably changed. Set after Turnabout Goodbyes - the prosecutor's impressions during Rise of the Ashes prior to his disappearance.


**Title: **Vanishing Point  
><strong>Genre: <strong>General/Drama  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Miles Edgeworth  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers for PW:AA, PW:JFA. Allusions to AAI. Mild symbolism. General angst.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Edgeworth tries to find his way in a world irrevocably changed. Set after _Turnabout Goodbyes_, the prosecutor's impressions during _Rise of The Ashes _prior to his disappearance. Extended vignette.

In the aftermath, the scene is no longer as picturesque.

Sunlight pours through the windows, pooling crimson-gold in the interior of the office, illuminating and casting a myriad of shadows. A fluted teacup sits at quarter-full mark, forgotten. A fountain pen lies still and solitary. Paperwork is set aside in a tidy stack; done as the day certainly is. In the evenings, things seem to arrange themselves into a kind of fractured reality when the the man in red rises to take his place by the window once more; Miles Edgeworth washed over in sunset, the fading radiance of the city's skyline.

Events have run its course. He shouldn't still be standing here, yet here he is, admiring the beauty of the horizon he thought he said farewell to; the only blight the descending twilight like the encroaching darkness at the edges of his mind. He is at liberty now, but things are no longer as it should be, no longer as he remembers; just a pale reproduction, a sub par imitation of the past. He had loved the sun's blazing rays and all its connotations - magnificent, especially at this hour - but he's struggling to save a crumbling recollection. At present, the sky doesn't seem quite so brilliant anymore, the colors reduced to something _less _vivid, something _short_ of perfection. This time, the tea is not unfailing Earl Grey; just a golden liquid steeped with the bitter taste of freedom.

He had foreseen that changes would be inevitable - steeled himself - in those last solitary hours before his release, but these trivial differences, these hairline cracks in his worldview he had forgotten to anticipate, still pains him to watch.

In the aftermath, nothing is safe or sacred. Not his convictions. Not his memories. Not even the sky.

* * *

><p>These days, he is wary of what cometh during the day instead of the night.<p>

Nightmares may have become a rarity now, but only because they've moved onto an entirely different plane; slipping through the gaps and fissures; stalking his waking hours instead of the sphere of dreams. He is free from sleepless nights spent stretched out on the bed, one arm slung over his eyes, pulse chasing a dawn that doesn't come quickly enough, only to wake up to mornings that he regrets, to a dread that seems to strengthen with the days.

Surely there is no other way to describe it, to define what's waiting ahead, as he crosses the underground car park to where his pride and joy is cordoned off; footsteps echoing and heart heavy. It's an open-and-shut case, so-called. Water-tight, with a surplus of photographs and reports, more than he knows what to do with. Almost unnecessary to be at close quarters to study the damage and extent of the crime, but now as he surveys the worst with his own eyes, the blood stains in the depths of the Porsche's trunk that looks so raw, and red, and _real_, he wonders if it's possible to grasp it at all.

Gumshoe is hovering somewhere out of his field of vision - or he would soon be, he thinks, after his release Gumshoe is always, persistently, _there _- but whether it is out of concern for his well-being (ridiculous, he's not been letting himself go), unwavering faith (how could he possibly have any left ?), or force of habit kicking in with a vengeance (he shouldn't put this past the detective, no), Gumshoe is at least transparent in his motivations; which brings him to the crux of the problem. As he picks at the yellow tape marring the pristine paintwork in a half-hearted pretense of an owner aggrieved, Edgeworth delves deep in his reserves for something lucid, some semblance of a purpose - at present, the situation is nothing less than like the blind leading the blind.

_What is he doing ? Why is he really here ?_

And then together they turn the insides of the car upside-down, searching for something so elusive Edgeworth can't give a name to and yet brought him down from Room 1202, drives him forward. Gumshoe, never known for overwhelming tact, doesn't ask him to explain.

Just like dream logic, nothing in this situation makes sense anymore.

* * *

><p>At the witness stand, the Chief of Police drops the bombshell without ceremony. The gavel like thunder in his ears, Edgeworth sees the pieces falling into place - fluid slow-motion, enough that his keen perception captures every painful detail - fragments he couldn't account for, fragments he ultimately <em>missed. <em>

Edgeworth knows who will suffer the worst of it; not Lana Skye, although she is certainly very well in line - but it's his turn first - his _mistake_, and so he endures. Gant's condescension and exploitation of bureaucratic loopholes does not alleviate things in the slightest - _are not the police and prosecution supposed to be on the same side ?_ - and he meets it with little more than silence and a metaphorical clench of fists.

_Did he not search his own car...? When is enough 'enough'...? Why couldn't he get this case right...?_

Something is missing, something still beyond his reach of understanding, more powerful than the material; the forlorn red muffler lying there without its rightful owner. But just as he endures, he also prioritizes, and so he sweeps the thoughts aside swiftly. Now is not the time for this, all the justifications and straw-grasping for his oversight can wait until old acquaintances, doubt and self-resentment, greet him outside the courts.

Now, he would rather sink through the floor than show further weakness, and so he pushes past the misery and this newfound sense of vertigo - if this was the beginning of a downward spiral, just how far could he possibly fall ? - plasters on a smirk and faces the blue-suited man opposite, the judge, the whole court, like it counts for nothing.

Like everything is absolutely right in the world.

* * *

><p>So everyday he keeps up the facade. Stalks past Lana's empty office without a second glance; turns off the grapevine dripping with sweet malice; ignores the media circling in the water drawn by the scent of fresh blood, in ever shrinking loops. Shuts himself in his office, not with a slam - <em>why would he ?<em> - but a quiet that could shake walls.

At the bottom of a desk drawer is a growing pile, unsorted, mail he has not bothered to check for ages - but is it really procrastination though ? When you're avoiding something to delay something _else_ even more unpleasant ?

So instead of the paperwork for SL-9 he needs to finalize, he picks up the envelopes and a letter opener, turning it carefully in his hand, slitting the flaps with a concentration almost painful. _No_, the blade doesn't remind him of the deadly weight of a dagger; nothing treacherous and deceptive, not reminiscent of anything at all. Peruses its contents like it's something more meaningful than unsolicited ads, subscription forms, yet another pink flyer touting the latest _Tres Bien_ special.

Time languishes. But it doesn't matter, does it ? These wasted five minutes ? Twenty ?

He has all the time in the world now, his whole life ahead of him. Unlike the others entrapped in this accursed case, he is not staring at the four walls of a cell for subverting justice; he is not a murderer manipulating the system for his own agenda, now sentenced and slow-walking towards the inevitable; he is not a slayer of innocents, once indiscriminate and obsessive, now lying in the grave. _No_ - he, who only received a slap on the wrist - his circumstances are unlike Lana Skye, Damon Gant, or Joe Darke.

But when details like names and methods and motives are put aside, forgotten like the letter opener clattering against woodgrain and Miles Edgeworth has his head in his hands - what _is_ the difference _really_ ?

* * *

><p>It's over.<p>

All this time he thought there could be nothing else unraveling from the past - nothing else could possibly compare - to fill that void, the silence after that scream.

All this time he's won battle after battle in court, a perpetual winning streak - only to lose the war.

There is no recourse. And what is one more irrevocable act on top of the multitudes he's most likely committed already ? So he lets the phone ring off the hook, turns his back on the dying sunset and its ephemeral splendor, and signs off those fateful words.

He, who had been on top of the world, and now the glory has bled out of him in a stream of regrets and revelations.

He isn't Miles Edgeworth, perfect prosecutor.

He never was.

**::End::**

**A/N: **Catching the traces of symbolism is not required to enjoy the fic, but it might add to it if you do (hint: Edgeworth's description of the prosecutor's badge).**  
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